


Two Worlds

by Delcat



Series: The Skies We're Under [4]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mental Instability, Nightmares, Stuttering, Submission, disturbing mental images
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delcat/pseuds/Delcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson has a conversation with someone he almost knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Worlds

"It’s worse than y-y-you think."  
  
Trembling hands tried to lift rocks out of a backpack.  
  
"You th-think you know how d-d-deep it goes, but, but you don’t."  
  
There wasn’t enough strength there, not even for that, and he tipped it over, pushed them out and through the mud one by one.  
  
"There are levels below levels below, below l-l-l-levels.  Below the h, h, _hospital_ and even below the stone.”  
  
The circle was erratic, half-formed, but it was too hard to make it better in the rain, hard enough to drag the logs in.  
  
"And they kill the herons.  There are m-more and more herons, and they k-k-k-k-keep killing them."  
  
Chester whined, long and low.  
  
"Every one."  
  
Wilson couldn’t hold his hands steady enough to light the fire, and as the matches spilled across the ground, he bit his lip and began laughing.  
  
Chester whined again and pressed her pudgy body against him.  His shoulders shook for a few minutes more, but he eventually quieted and put his arms around her, sighing inaudibly.  He had been ready to give up on the fire, but it would be worth it if they could both be warm.  And if Chester could stop smelling like wet dog.  
  
Wilson hated dogs.  
  
He had always hated them.  He thought.  He thought a lot of things, though, and they didn’t all fit together.  Even beyond the nightmares, the sharp intense flashes of dying birds and hospital halls, beyond what he _knew_ was wrong, there were…problems.  Inconsistencies.  Each time he was touched by silky shadow hands, each time he was dragged gasping into the ground, fragments were extracted, twisted, replaced.  
  
"I think I understand n-n-n-now,"  His voice was quiet as he gathered the matches one by one, discarded those too mud-soaked to use.  "I think I unders-s-s-stand, or, or I’m getting there, but I don’t…I don’t know why you had to make it so h-h-h-h, _hard_.”  
  
He finally lit a match and looked up into a face he almost recognized.  He touched cold stone and shivered, whimpered.  
  
"Did I do something…s-s-something wrong?  I…don’t remember…doing…"  
  
He drew a sharp breath as the match burned his fingers, and sucked at the burn—  
  
 _—not the taste of bare fingers but of leather, did he not want his hands sullied by the touch of a whore’s tongue or did he know did he know what he wanted even then—_  
  
Wilson gasped, hand curling and falling from his lips, memory pulsing briefly through his body before receding to behind his eyes.  He stared at his hand, shaking, then punched the base of the statue, not caring about the pain.  
  
"Wh-wh- _why did you make it so hard?_ ”  
  
It took a long while of his shoulders shaking in alternating laughter and sobs, and more than a few prods from Chester, but Wilson started the fire in time.  He sat close to it, looking up at the statue of Maxwell and periodically running his fingers through what was left of his dark-flower garland.    
  
His body was spent, every muscle aching from the day’s work, his bad leg screaming its protests, but it wasn’t until the fire burned low enough that he couldn’t see its face that he curled up and closed his eyes.  
  
Wilson hated dogs.  
  
But for that night, he slept faithfully at the foot of his master.


End file.
